Convex Concave
by eden alice
Summary: "God he wanted it all to burn." If Tony had survived the explosion of the factory.


Convex Concave

The violent oranges of sunrise were smothered by the heavy harshness of dark grey clouds. Even as the sun rose the weather seemed oppressive, the sky heavy with moisture and the distant roll of thunder. It did not feel like a new day, it felt like endless night, hours of endless despair without the hope of a new dawn. He thinks he should be worried if he was not already so jaded. The worst things always happen when the weather takes a dramatic turn and Tony has wondered if it was some kind of cosmic sign, or perhaps a sign from beyond the grave.

Wind rattles through trees reduced to towering inky silhouettes in the gloom. He feels removed and analytical with his cheek pressed against the cool glass of the hotel room window, because maybe the world can not touch him anymore. He does not need the world and its complications anymore because he has everything he needs and in the quietness of the dowdy room he thinks that he might not even need absolution anymore.

He could withstand existing down in the depths of the shadows and half lights now he has his affinity. Now it was not about being a better man and he can finally rest within the lurking twilight.

The room smells of mothballs and smoke and somehow it feels more like home than a bare and impersonal prison cell. There is a television on too loudly down the hall and a couple grunting like they are making a pornographic film on the opposite side of the too thin wall. He still has access to obscene amounts of funds, his natural paranoia somehow made him prepare for something like this, so he had large sums in untraceable accounts like some kind of Bond villain. Only he was going to have to get used to living under the radar. He missed the expensive tailoring of his suits and the materialistic power he used to command.

Only Tony had discovered a new power now, one that was more of a rush than knocking a rival company out of the competition. The heavy weight of the gun in his hand and people who would never forgive him cowering away from him. And the raging fire like the existential representation of his heart.

God he wanted it all to burn.

It starts to rain just a little, just enough to dot the concrete of the empty car park with moisture; he tries to will a down pour in the futile hope that heavy rain would somehow wash enough sin away. His eyes feel gritty and too big from lack of sleep. His arm stings but not as much as he would have expected. He can't quite believe she actually shot him but then he can't quite believe that he was filled with such explosive rage that he had pistol whipped her. She made him proud.

With only one set of clothes he had washed out his t-shirt in the bathroom sink and left it on the radiator knowing full well it would not dry out. But at least the sour smell of ashes would not be as strong, it was not so easy to wash the smell away from his skin and hair. He felt odd, like his skin was not big enough to hold his form and pulled taunt. A distant analytical part of his brain guessed it was a side effect of the extreme heat.

The bullet seemed to have passed straight through his shoulder, the hole strangely small and angry underneath the white of the hastily wrapped bandage.

Battle scars for the world to see.

The laboured sound of his wife's breathing behind him broke through his brittle numbness and he had spent most of the night listening in the darkness as she slept, his heart leaping into his throat at every irregularity. It seemed he could never stop caring about her. She filled every inch of his being till sense meant nothing and he was drowning in her.

He was not sure how he felt, half carrying, half dragging her battered body to the single bed. After a few violent coughing fits that made him wince she had quickly fallen into a deep but restless sleep. He had been able to tend to her injuries as if she was simply a limp doll. She probably needed professional medical help but it was not safe for them to go to a hospital. There would be too many questions and forms, they were not a part of that world anymore.

He had long ago committed her appearance to memory. Her skin darkened with soot and deep bruising. Dried blood sticking her raven hair to her cheek. He had stood over her and pressed a finger gently on the wound filled with a strange sense of awe.

_'I did this.'_

When she woke up he would help her to the bathroom to wash away the past like some kind of baptism into a world of moral ambiguity. She was bound to be uncomfortable but she was too exhausted for it to matter. And it seemed very strange that his rage for her seemed to have been consumed within a burning factory. And now their future was uncertain but his resolve was steady. They would be together for eternity and that was enough to sedate him.

Tony slowly turned back to the bed sat in the middle of the tiny room to watch her shift again in her sleep. She is still the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

"It's a fitting dawn my love."


End file.
